


A Copper to Chop off Your Head

by NAOA



Category: Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Creepy, Dark, Fights, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, Police, Police Brutality, Spooky, Trippy, Verbal Abuse, Weirdness, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 11:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25848784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NAOA/pseuds/NAOA
Summary: Sometimes unsolved crimes have ghosts all their own and on this night, John is dragged into a forgotten world of dead coppers and their unanswered questions.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	A Copper to Chop off Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this in my head and wanted to get it out but honestly, I don't think it turned out quite the way I'd intended. I think I wanted to write something like my story "Taking the Long Way" but I don't think it turned out as good. Oh well, thanks for reading and enjoy!

John stumbles out of a dim pub and onto a dark street, last call served and head pleasantly floating as he pats himself down for a cigarette.

He's just got it lit and a few steps down the street when the light overhead goes out.

He stops for a moment.

It could have been normal.

Should have been normal.

A little pop and the dark came down and for anyone else it would have been normal but it wasn't normal for him and he knows that he can't stay but every step he takes will pull him further into whatever is going to happen.

He takes the step and the next light shines over head.

It's just the one out by the pub, hanging like a dark ghost.

He keeps walking, keeps smoking, keeps seeing lights. Nothing happens and he thinks for an instant that that's all it was, a light going out and even if he is John Constantine, these things do happen.

He almost laughs and then he hears the sound of wheels stopping.

He couldn't remember a car behind him a moment ago but there it was and worse it was police, a whole band of them.

Fiver coppers for one man.

He groans, forgetting the light.

"Evening!" One of them calls as the group descends on him.

He stops walking. "Evening." He says, bringing his cigarette to his lips. "Anything I can help you boys with?"

They grin at him and in the orange street light they look like a pack of hyenas, all indistinguishable from each other. He tries to meet all of their eyes. He hasn't done anything.

"You know, we could have you arrested for that?" The first copper say's, eyes bright and face dull.

He hesitates, not liking this. "Might have to fill me in on what 'that' is." He say's. "Just on my way home."

"Home?" One of the others laughed. "You don't sound like you're from around here, mate. Vagrancy?"

John frowns. "Got a room."

"Transients always are up to loads of stuff." Someone else says, leaning against the wall next to him and making the others laugh.

He steps away, they've circled him. "Here to visit a friend." He lies.

"Anyone able to prove that?" Someone else asks and he feels them close in on him.

"I don't know, think we should probably take him in then. He might be dangerous." the second man say.

John weighs his options but there's five of them and they've got him surrounded and one of them's got a club out, looking for all the world like every punk's depiction of a cop he's ever seen. He's not going to be able to fight it out but he doesn't have a friend to call either. Something bad is happening.

He thinks too long and someone grabs him, hauling him against the wall, shoving hard.

He can feel his arms being twisted behind his back. "Easy mate." He say's, trying to stay cocky. "Not putting up a fight, am I?"

"Not what it looked like to me." The copper breathes in his ear.

He feels it cold and ticking and then it's off the wall and across the sidewalk and into the back of the van where he's sitting with three of the five and not a single one of them is looking at him. They're all just talking to themselves, arguing about some long played out match and Manchester United.

It makes him angry. "You haven't charged me with anything." He say's.

One of them looks at him and for the life of him he can't remember if this is two or three. "We'll think of something." He say's, face impassive, creepy compared with earlier. "But until then, shut the fuck up." He hits him and John's thrown for a loop.

It's like something out of a movie and he wonders how far they are form the police station.

They bring him in through the back and he can't get a good look at where he is.

The station is dark and dreary, dry white walls and muddy floors, everything yellow in the dull light.

He's hauled into a cell and the coppers get in a few last jeers before he's left alone and once he is he realizes that he might be in a little bit more trouble than he had first thought.

This hasn't gone at all how he had expected and he wonders who he's pissed off this time.

He sits and waits.

There's no one else in the white little room.

No one in the other cells either.

A clock is on the wall, ticking silently and he strains his ears for it's sweep but can't catch it.

He didn't think it was right either.

He moves to a different bench, trying to get comfortable. Failing.

He get's tried and wonders what's taking so long. He hasn't done anything and he didn't see anyone upstairs.

Something isn't right but he can't put his finger on it yet.

He feels claustrophobic in the cell, white walls flaking and old. . . cracked and yellow in the failing light.

He lay's back, arms behind his head and waits.

The clock is wrong. It's not keeping time and he's sure of it now.

He waits some more.

He looks at the ceiling and wonders where he is.

He wonders why he can't hear a single thing other than his own heart and breathing.

He wonders why he's the only one there.

He nods off after a while and wakes up to yellowing walls and cracks in the ceiling.

No ticking from the clock.

Time wrong.

He looks around.

No one else in the cell.

Strange.

He waits some more, sitting up this time.

After a while he paces and it doesn't relieve the cramped, trapped feeling he's got in his chest.

He doesn't like it here. He doesn't like the silence and the whites or the yellows.

He sits with his head in his hands for a while, trying to dull the mind numbingness of it all. There's nothing and he's grown past frustrated.

"Hello?" He tries calling.

No one and nothing.

He sits back like an angry school boy, kicking the floor. It's cracked too.

He wonders what their budget is. Doesn't care.

He wants out.

He wants to be charged or let go.

He walks to the bars and then back to his seat, ass hurting from the bench and legs cramped.

Nothing and nothing and nothing and he's sweating in the little cell, exhausted and sober as a judge, reeking like drink and head hurting from it.

He hates this and he wants a smoke but he doesn't have his cigarettes. They took them and his coat.

He feels his hands almost shake from it all and sits back down, desperate for anything now and then finally, when he doesn't know how long it's been, doesn't care, two of the coppers who'd arrested him are back and they're hiding barely concealed grins and he hates them instantly, standing up.

"We got a few questions for you." One of them says, flipping open a note book. "Name?"

"John Constantine." He says immediately. "Look, I haven't done anything!"

The man just looks at him and his partner snorts.

"How long have I been in here?" He asks, aware that when he swipes his hair back it sticks back with sweat.

"Where were you earlier this evening?" The one with the notebook asks, ignoring him.

He's growing frustrated again. "How early?" He asks, not keeping the snide from his voice. "I was in the pub most of the night. You can ask the barman."

The eyes glance up at him again. "We will."

He want's to scream.

"Alright Mr. Constantine, you're going to come with us. We've got a few more questions to ask and then we'll be done."

He's taken out of the cell in cuffs again, lead up to a desk. It must not have been as long as he'd thought, it was still night out and there weren't many coppers around.

He's processed numbly, no real effort put into it and he still doesn't have a charge.

He doesn't know why he's being done over or what happened earlier that night that he's supposed to know about.

He tries asking a few more times but the two don't answer and he starts feeling pitiful when he tries. He knows they're not going to answer.

Then they're getting him up and taking him down a different flight of stairs and he's worried now because it's dark and cold down here and he's thrown into a dimly light room with a desk in it.

"Take a seat, Mr. Constantine." The note pad say's.

He does as he's told, heart thudding in his chest, palms sticky. He wants a smoke so bad and these aren't demons. He can't poof them away with spells and tricky words.

He doesn't have the power here and then the three other coppers are joining them and his skin crawls when the first sits down.

He's loosing track of which is which, they all look the same.

"Do you smoke, Mr. Constantine?" The cop asks, tossing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter towards him.

He takes one greedily and then looks up, knowing this is a tactic, still taking it.

It's stale.

He doesn't care.

"John is it?" The man asks, letting him puff for a second.

"Is." He mutters.

"Well John, we're looking for a man fitting your description for a murder up in Rochdale, you wouldn't have happened to have been up that way would you?"

"Gonna have to be more specific." He found himself saying, sounding more together than he was. "When?"

They teetered. "The man left on foot, neighbors said he had a Liverpool accent and blond hair."

He was getting braver. "Then maybe I know him." He said.

They seemed to close in again, five of them, all looking alike.

He was being stupid.

There was something not right about this.

There was something wrong.

"We think you might, the man was seen wearing blue trousers and a white shirt."

"Trousers are black, mate. Sorry. What to tell me when I'm supposed to have been in Rochdale?"

"April 20th."

"I was in London."

"Anyone who can vouch for you there?"

There was this time and he nods but they don't ask for addresses or names. Don't seem to care.

"There was a Seven Eleven robbed a few nights ago in the area we picked you up in, hang around there often?" The cop asked, like he hadn't just struck out on his first line of inquiry.

John is frustrated. "I didn't rob a bloody Seven Eleven!" He shouts.

The cop sits back, looking unimpressed. "No need to raise your voice Johnny, we all want to go home here. Why don't you tell us where you were the night of June 15th?"

How the hell was he supposed to know? It was September! "No idea." He say's, cigarette burned out.

He's prompted to light another and the cop across from him takes one as well.

"Well that doesn't look good, maybe you robbed it and forgot. You drink a lot, Johnny?"

He glowered at him. They'd picked him up outside of a pub and he twitches as one comes near, invading his personal space to take a cigarette.

He doesn't like the way the man is getting so close, making him move out of the way.

"Easy, Johnny here's gonna talk. He's going to remember." The man across from him say's, pleasant as ever.

And John know's it doesn't matter because he hasn't killed anyone in Rochdale and he hasn't robbed a Seven Eleven. "I know I didn't rob a shop." He say's. "I wasn't even in Manchester when that happened."

"But we've got you on CCTV." The man say's, mouth twitching. "Blond hair and everything, looking like a right little movie star."

They all laugh and he twists in his seat a little, looking around at them.

"Hey, eyes front!" Someone shouts suddenly and the force of it makes his eyes snap back to the man in front of him.

The man just looks calm. "So you've been drifting around the country and came up here, robbed a convenience store and. . . what have you been doing since?" The man asked. "We haven't ruled you out for the murder yet either so be honest."

John couldn't believe this. It was ridiculous. "I didn't do anything!" He says. "Listen mate, I think I get a lawyer in these kinds of situations."

"You'll get your lawyer." The man says. "But we need to know where you've been first, a girl is dead."

He wants to shout but he's still handcuffed and out numbered. He doesn't like the odds. He sits back. "Check your bloody tapes again, I haven't robbed a store."

"We'll do that." The man says calmly. "Now, what about the murder?"

He looks back up, feeling a little strained. How many times did he have to say he hand't done it? "I don't know." He say's. "I didn't kill anyone."

"Maybe she was a girlfriend?" The copper behind him, the one who keeps getting too close say's voice low, he's getting close again.

He glances back at him and get's a smack over the head.

"Eyes front." Someone shouts.

Reluctantly his eyes go forward and he's looking at the man sitting opposite again, hating him, feeling the other man hovering next to his shoulder.

"Or just a fuck." The man across from him say's.

He grits his teeth. "I don't have a girlfriend, mate." He say's. "Sorry."

"Well no, she's dead."

He should have seen that coming. "I don't even know her name." He say's. "I can't help you."

"I know, I know but there must be something you know." The man say's, urging him to take another cigarette. They're really bad but he does so anyway.

Seven Elevens and dead girlfriends. . . he couldn't string them together and something was off here. There was no way these crimes were connected. It didn't make sense.

He tries to catch a name or a badge number on the uniforms but can't, the words are jumbled and the numbers don't make sense.

Something is off here and they're not demons but he hasn't figured out what they are yet either and his skin is crawling.

He looks back at the man opposite him and waits. "I don't know anything." He says.

The man nods and lights on of his own cigarettes, smoke smelling better than his. "Everybody know's something." He say's. "What do you know?"

He shakes his head. "Not what you're asking about."

"She was in a bad state." The man say's, shaking his head. "She must have made you really angry."

He's exhausted and there's a humming starting in his ears. "I haven't killed anyone!" He shouts, rising out of his seat slightly.

The cops don't seem fazed but one of the punches him in the back of the head, forcing him back into his seat.

"Keep it together John, we're almost done." The one opposite him say's, sounding almost board. "So you came up here from London to see your girlfriend, got into a fight, maybe had a few drinks and then what. . . held up in a motel for a while? Got low on funds I'd imagine and went and robbed the Seven Eleven down the street. It happens John only you've killed two people now. That isn't very good."

John puts his head in his hands, growing defeated. Now it's two people? "No." He say's. "That wasn't me."

"What did you and the miss fight about?"

His head is throbbing and the ringing in his ears is growing worse. "We didn't. . . I don't have a girlfriend. . . "

"No, no, of course not. She's dead. Is that what you wanted John? Was she starting to make you feel too cramped up? Starting to make you feel pinned down? Telling you what to do? Saying you couldn't go with other girls?"

He know's there's no way to answer this that won't get twisted around.

"So you killed her, problem solved only you knew we'd come looking for you. She was a nice girl. People liked her."

He shook his head. "I didn't do this."

"But you did rob the Seven Eleven and you killed the clerk, you didn't have to do that, Johnny. Why'd you do that?"

The ringing is worse and he's imagining holes in the coppers's heads. Black, gaping holes that ooze black blood, pulsing down their foreheads and into their eyes. . . their plane faces all alike and their numbers all wrong.

His head is spinning and everything he's saying is being turned back on him but he really hasn't done it. Hasn't killed anyone, hasn't robbed a store. . .

It's not a crime to be passing through but he's beginning to think it might be tonight and the bulb on the ceiling flickers from behind it's cage.

He looks at the man across from him and can feel the other hovering over his shoulder, too close.

"I was just in the pub." He say's softly, seeing the holes in their heads and the blood down their fronts.

They're dead and he's trapped in their world.

They all teeter, the pack closing in in some kind of frenzy and he doesn't know how long it's all been going on.

"Just in the pub, that's what they all say." Someone jeers.

"Fucking give it to her before you did her?" Someone else asks.

It feels like there more than six of them in the room and he's freezing and sweating and his ears are ringing and their heads are bleeding.

The man across from him raises a hand then, silencing them and they all hover like rabid dogs. "We'll give John a moment to think about what he wants to say when we come back. I know that if he's a smart lad he'll want to cooperate. Think about it Johnny, we can help you."

John just looks at them and his mind is racing, he has to get out of here but he barely knows what's going on.

They file out and he's left alone, cuffs still on and head aching.

This isn't normal and he's getting afraid. He can almost admit that to himself and he takes another stale cigarette and put's it to his lips.

The room is filthy, caked in years of dust and grime. He hadn't noticed that before and he takes it in now, wondering again where he is.

He's left alone for a good twenty minutes, maybe just ten. . . he can't tell and they took his watch a while ago.

They come back, filing in, faces white and healed.

The light isn't flickering.

"Look's like there's been a misunderstanding, Mr. Constantine." One of them say's and for the life of him he can't remember which one was the one who'd been sitting opposite him.

He looks up and he can see the holes in their heads again, ancient and black. Deep and rotten.

Someone is uncuffing him and he's being lead back up stairs, feet tripping on the stone steps.

"You're free to go." The man leading him say's leaving the others in the dark and flickering light.

He blinks. "After all that?" He asks.

The man laughs. "Routine, sir."

He doesn't believe that for a God damn minute but his coat and belongings are being pressed back into his hands and he's taking them and they're walking towards the front door.

There's a WPC sitting at a desk by it, she's the first new person he's seen but she doesn't look up as he passes and he think's she's got oddly old fashioned hair. Reminds him of some of the women he'd see when he was a kid.

The copper behind him is whistling now. Oranges and Lemons and they stop by the door and the man gives him a nod and then he's all by himself and he opens the door and there's morning light on his face.

He stops and stares. There's a whole street outside the belly of the beast, cars and people, purposes and the living.

He steps out and looks up at the police station but it's boarded up and the windows smashed.

He stares at it and then looks back in the door he's just exited and he feels himself twitch a little as he reaches for another cigarette, throat raw and mouth dry.

There's sweat sticking to his pits and in his hair and he knows that something not quite right just took place.

There's a demolition notice on the door too, scheduled for next week.

Too bad about the Seven Eleven and the girl in Rochdale. He doubts they'll solve them before the place is torn down and maybe that's for the best. The coppers need a rest and really, the world's already moved on.

He think's with some humor that he might just have been the last person processed in there, down in the yellow pit.

He draws his coat up around him and set's off down the street, eager to catch a ride south and out of Manchester, eager to forget the holes in their heads and the ones in his heart. The Last Rites of dead coppers, their little songs and unsolved crimes, singing away for at least another week in the belly of the yellow beast.

**Author's Note:**

> I was drunk when I wrote this so honestly, it could be better. Thanks for reading though and maybe some time I'll come back and clean it up. Some of the scenes weren't as intense as I think I wanted and some of the prose is a little off as far as I'm concerned but I got the idea in my head and did my best to get it out. Thanks again for reading!


End file.
